Career choices
by AmZ
Summary: Montparnasse has received a mysterious letter and must now find out who discovered his secret. Not part of my main story arc.


Author's Note: This is a very old story, and it's not just AU but a meta-AU – it has nothing to do not only with the book but also with the story arc encompassing most of my Javert-related stories. I figured I'll post it to break up the boredom currently reigning in this section.

* * *

After tripping on the third upturned paving stone, frustrated with his own clumsiness and overcome with unsettling premonitions, Montparnasse was ready to scream. Tripping once was fine; but tripping three times during new moon on a Friday while on one's way to a potentially dangerous meeting promised nothing but bad luck. Only the fear of inflicting further damage on his already untidy outfit kept the secretly superstitious "devil's dandy" from spitting thrice over his left shoulder. The evening was obviously not off to a smooth start, and that worried the hapless lad far more than even the scratches inflicted on his shiny new Wellington boots.

Two blocks further north, Montparnasse found himself in the heart of the old University Town. The streets were empty, as could be expected at that time of night on a weekday. Montparnasse paused to catch his breath and look around. Behind him Abbe Genevieve lay in the shadows; straight ahead, the unlit streets of the Latin quarter coiled and looped like snakes in a nest.

The message said to be on the corner of Rue des Chiens and Rue de Sept Voyes at eleven. The symbolism of the location was obvious: they were to meet halfway between Ile du Palais and the Salpetriere. Right on the border, at it were. This territory belonged neither to the dogs of the municipal police nor the wolves of Pantin, and neither Gisquet nor Patron-Minette had jurisdiction there. Montparnasse didn't mind. All symbolism aside, if either the cops or the thieves got wind of this little meeting, there would be hell to pay for both of them. Discretion was vital.

Montparnasse quickened his step once again. The letter, which had been delivered to him three hours earlier by a street urchin, was burning a hole in his watch pocket. At first he thought it was gibberish and wondered who the joker was that sent it. But then he read it out loud, and suddenly nonsense was no longer nonsense. For minutes thereafter, Montparnasse studied the loops and flourishes of the signature, but it was indecipherable. Thousands of questions swirled in his mind, all of them merging into a single, massive concern: _how did he find out?_

A flicker of movement straight ahead caught his eyes. There. In the side alley, under the wrought iron sign of the stationery shop. The darkness there seemed thicker somehow, more condensed. Was it just the shadow from the overhanging balcony? Or was it…

The shadow shifted again.

'It's him,' Montparnasse thought, clenching his sweating palms into fists. 'It must be him...'

Montparnasse took a hesitant step forward. His heart was throbbing and thrashing in his throat like a finch caught in a hunter's net. The white undershirt clung to his back, dampened by cold, sticky sweat. Montparnasse found it rather embarrassing: he, the prince of perfect coolness, who smiled his way through both his first murder and his first love affair, was in a tizzy over some silly letter! He was already regretting keeping the appointment.

"It would be senseless to run away now that you've arrived, don't you think?" asked a deep, somewhat familiar voice from the shadows.

Montparnasse ground his teeth and took a bold step forward, gripping behind his back his "plainclothes gendarme" - a cane with a concealed dagger.

"Put away the toy, _meero chavo_. Set it on the pavement. You won't need it tonight."

"Not a chance," sneered Montparnasse. "You must think me a pretty fool."

There was a snort of laughter and the man stepped out into the street. He was very tall and wore a blood-red vest underneath a short workman's jacket. A gold earring glinted in his right ear. Montparnasse recognized Javert, one of the inspectors of St. Marcel, now divested of his characteristic greatcoat and hat.

"Put the pin down, _chavo_. You _jin feter dovey oduvu_," said the man. ("You know better than that.")

"So it was you who sent me the letter," said Montparnasse. "What do you want from me?"

"I only wanted to confirm something that both of us might find interesting."

"What are you talking about?"

Javert paused and pinched the bridge ohis nose, as if his eyes were paining him.

"On the records stored in the Prefecture archive, you are listed as the offspring of Jacques and Asceline Tonnelier of Lyon. Is this true?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"I was reviewing your file several weeks ago and thought to myself: well, this is curious, but it proves nothing. There could be multiple Ascelines Tonnelier in Lyon, several of which might be married to men named Jacques. I made some inquiries; I received answers. They told me that there was no such woman in Lyon. I searched high and low, and finally found her name again on a prison register in Marseille, where she had at one point been an inmate in a poorhouse. And then I couldn't deny it anymore. The coincidence of name, date and location would have been simply too great."

"Well?"

"Your mother was really a traveler, a fortune-teller, wasn't she? And her real name, the name she was called at birth, was not Asceline - she had never been baptized and given a Christian name. It was Shuri."

"Yes," answered Montparnasse, astounded. "Yes."

"And when she grew up, she was called _Yocki Shuri_." Javert's voice took on an oddly affectionate tone. "Shuri the Clever, the most proficient _carreuse _in the entire Provence. A famous jewel-filcher who ended up married to a man called Lyonnais, bore him three sons and was beaten to death by him for an invented infidelity. Is this right?"

"_Mā rokra kekomi_!" snarled Montparnasse. "Shut the hell up! I'll cut your throat for this snooping, you filthy cur!"

The threats had a paradoxical effect: Javert started laughing a strange noiseless laugh.

"Now now, _chavo_. Where's your respect for your elders, eh?"

He stepped up to Montparnasse and laid a huge long-fingered hand on his upper arm. Montparnasse calculated his odds, found them slim and released his grip on the head of the cane, letting it roll on the pavement.

Javert smiled the benevolent smile of a sated wolf contemplating a frolicking lamb.

"See, I knew you'd come to your senses. All this knife-grabbing was getting a bit tedious."

He lowered his head to Montparnasse's with a conspiring air:

"And honestly now, is that any way to treat your uncle?"


End file.
